Searching for Serenity: Finding My Way On the Camino de Santiago

By Angelo C. Fulco

Searching for Serenity is a challenging and inspiring account of one man's pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago. Angelo C. Fulco's memoir of his life changing journey will take readers from his point of departure in Canada to his final destination of Santiago de Compostela. Along the Way he meets fellow pilgrims who share their own stories and r

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oxford Book Writers
• Release date: Jan 16, 2025
• ISBN: 9781966558545

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Searching for Serenity

Finding My Way On the Camino de Santiago

Angelo C. Fulco

Copyright © 2025

All Rights Reserved

ISBN:

Dedication

For my mother and father

Giuseppina and Matteo Fulco.

For their love, their courage

And their many sacrifices

Acknowledgement

The calibre of this book exceeded my expectations due to the contributions of the many pilgrims and interesting people along the Way. Their personal stories of hope and courage and their authenticity are an inspiration to everyone. I am particularly grateful to my Camino Family for their friendship and unwavering loyalty. Some of the names and story details of the contributors have been changed to protect their privacy.

My Crazy Path to Saint Jean Pied de Port was previously published as a short story in Connections: An Anthology of Prose and Poetry by Ottawa Independent Writers in 2023.

The poem, The Path, was written by the author of this book.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgement

My Crazy Path to Saint Jean Pied de Port

History of Santiago de Compostela

Friday, May 6, 2022

Saturday, May 7, 2022: Day 1 on the Camino

Sunday, May 8: Day 2 on the Camino

Monday, May 9: Day 3 on the Camino

Tuesday, May 10: Day 4 on the Camino

Wednesday, May 11: Day 5 on the Camino

Thursday, May 12: Day 6 on the Camino

Friday, May 13: Day 7 on the Camino

Saturday, May 14: Day 8 on the Camino

Sunday, May 15: Day 9 on the Camino

Monday, May 16: Day 10 on the Camino

Tuesday, May 17: Day 11 on the Camino

Wednesday, May 18: Day 12 on the Camino

Thursday, May 19: Day 13 on the Camino

Friday, May 20: Day 14 on the Camino

Saturday, May 21: Day 15 on the Camino

Sunday, May 22: Day 16 on the Camino

Monday, May 23: Day 17 on the Camino

Tuesday, May 24: Day 18 on the Camino

Wednesday, May 25: Day 19 on the Camino

Thursday, May 26: Day 20 on the Camino

Friday, May 27: Day 21 on the Camino

Saturday, May 28: Day 22 on the Camino

Sunday, May 29: Day 23 on the Camino

Monday, May 30: Day 24 on the Camino

Tuesday, May 31: Day 25 on the Camino

Wednesday, June 1: Day 26 on the Camino

Thursday, June 2: Day 27 on the Camino

Friday, June 3: Day 28 on The Camino

Saturday, June 4: Day 29 on the Camino

Sunday, June 5: Day 30 on the Camino

Monday, June 6: Day 31 on the Camino

Tuesday, June 7: Day 32 on the Camino

Wednesday, June 8: Day 33 on the Camino

Thursday, June 9: Day 34 on the Camino

Friday, June 10: Day 35 on the Camino

Saturday, June 11: Day 36 on the Camino

Sunday, June 12: Day 2 in Santiago de Compostela

Monday, June 13: Day 3 in Santiago de Compostela

Tuesday, June 14: Day 4 in Santiago de Compostela

Wednesday, June 15: Day 5 in Santiago de Compostela

Thursday, June 16: Day 6 in Santiago de Compostela

Epilogue

About The Author

The Path

He walks the path to find enlightenment

To search for truth, to cleanse his soul.

Thirty-three days he walks in pain

Along the path to find his way.

Over hills and mountains and valleys below

Past streams and rivers and fields of gold.

Much beauty surrounds him, his path is clear

Until a choice to make instills much fear

Fog surrounds him, he is unsure

Misses the sign to the path that is pure

He must go back to find his way.

From the righteous path he must not stray.

A distant voice he thinks he hears

Follow me, come this way

Walk this path, do not stray.

He follows the voice.

Into the fog he must go

Trust and faith he does show.

The fog has lifted, the sun now shines

The path is clear; he is in the light.

Endless miles he does endure

Pain and suffering until there is no more.

His backpack is heavy with burdens he’s carried

Guilt and sorrow that must be buried.

Cruz de Ferro is now in sight

Here he will lighten his load and leave his burdens behind

On bended knee his soul does bleed.

As his unfulfilled heart cries out its need.

Lamentations as he mourns

The loss of pain is the pain he scorns.

His joyful heart touches his anguished soul

Surrendering finally from its rooted woes.

His path has now ended, he’s found his way

From the righteous path he did not stray

My Crazy Path to Saint Jean Pied de Port

T

ravelling to France and then Spain to walk the Camino de Santiago has been a dream of mine for many years. The COVID-19 pandemic delayed it, but on Wednesday, May 4, 2022, I arrived at the Ottawa airport, ready to embark on the adventure of a lifetime.

Going through the security scan, I am relieved when no alarms go off. Usually, I am taken aside for further scrutiny. My wife blames what she calls my ‘mean resting face.’ As I smile at the thought of her saying that I notice my backpack on the conveyor going in the opposite direction of the luggage of the person ahead of me. A moment later, a middle-aged security woman with a very serious look on her face pulls me over to the side.

Sir, if you could please come this way, I will need to check your luggage.

Of course, I reply. Here we go again. She begins removing everything in my black backpack as well as the contents of my smaller green backpack containing my important papers. At the bottom of my larger backpack, she pulls out a plastic bag containing a small rock. She removes the rock from the plastic bag and looks at me with immense curiosity.

Sir, you have a rock in your backpack.

Yes, I do. Is it illegal for me to carry that small rock in my backpack?

No, she replies, but I’m just wondering why you would be carrying this rock in your backpack. I decide to have a little bit of fun with her and begin to untangle, very slowly and in great detail, why I am transporting a rock.

I’m travelling to Spain to walk the Camino de Santiago, an 800-kilometre pilgrimage starting in France in a small town called Saint Jean Pied de Port—which is at the base of the French Pyrenees Mountains—to Santiago de Compostela, Spain. On the way to my ultimate destination, I will be climbing to the highest point along the Camino, called the Cruz de Ferro. At the base of a massive structure called the Iron Cross, I will leave the rock you are now holding in your hand. This is, and has been, a symbolic gesture of leaving one’s burdens behind, and has been practiced by hundreds of thousands of pilgrims over many years.

She frowns and has a dazed look on her face. It appears she has had enough of my extremely detailed explanation, and she returns my belongings to the backpack.

Thank you and have a nice flight, she states dismissively.

Thank you, I reply and walk away with a devilish smirk on my face.

The Air Canada flight from Ottawa to Montreal is smooth, and before long I am sitting at the Montreal airport waiting for my next plane. Montreal to Frankfurt is a long but pleasant eight hours. The Lufthansa plane is one of the biggest I have ever been on, and the service and food are excellent. Taking my seat, I do my usual ritual of making the sign of the cross and asking God to give us a smooth and safe flight to our destination.

During flights, short or long, I can’t sleep. I just can’t relax enough, even with an alcoholic beverage or two. My mind races between thoughts of leaving behind my wonderful family and friends and the pilgrimage I am about to embark on. I suppose there is always a little fear of the unknown, whether we admit it or not.

By the time we land in Frankfurt, I am fatigued and somewhat nauseous. It is early Thursday morning, and I have a full day of travel ahead to reach Saint Jean Pied de Port in France. I board my next plane which will take me to Bordeaux, France. This is a much smaller plane with less room, but I have a window seat on a clear and beautiful sunny day. The passenger beside me is a businessman who is very focused on his computer tablet. After a smooth and scenic flight, we land in Bordeaux. This is where the day goes from the penthouse to the outhouse!

My travel itinerary indicates that I will take a shuttle to the next stop; the train station. I soon discover that this is not the case! With my overstuffed black backpack and my lighter green backpack on my shoulders, I haul my large brown suitcase—while thinking it is a huge mistake bringing it—up three steps to get on the city bus. There are many people on board, all focusing on my awkward entrance. To be sure I am on the correct bus to the train station, I ask the driver in my very best French if this bus is going to the train station.

"Oui, oui, monsieur, she replies in a dismissive tone. Où est votre billet?"

"Je n’ai pas de billet, madame," I reply, handing her a €5.00 bill. She looks at me as if I am an alien.

Monsieur, vous devez avoir la monnaie pour acheter le billet! she demands.

Mais madame, je n’ai pas de la monnaie.

The bus is already in motion, and the driver is getting quite annoyed with this troublesome traveller, who does not have a ticket or the correct small change to buy a ticket. Explaining in Parisian French what I am to do next, she continues, "Monsieur, vous devez demander de la monnaie aux gens pour acheter le billet."

So, I need to ask the people on this bus for change to buy my ticket to get to the train station, which will finally get me to my destination, Saint Jean Pied de Port. I have not slept for well over 24 hours and I am extremely tired and nauseous, but also desperate and with no other options. Please give this poor fool a change so he can buy a ticket to stay on the bus.

"Excusez-moi, tout le monde, mais j’ai besoin de la monnaie."

Who knew my biggest challenges would come before my 800-kilometre trek? My face is flush with humiliation as I watch people look up, down, or out of the window; anywhere to avoid eye contact. I look around for a kind face and understanding eyes, and after an excruciating few seconds, a finely-dressed gentleman sitting across from where I am standing digs into his trouser pocket and comes up with a handful of change. He extends his arm toward me with obvious pity.

"Monsieur, prenez ce dont vous avez besoin."

I take all his change and turn to the driver, who shows me what I need to deposit—€2.00—then at last, I have a ticket in my hand! What a humbling experience! As I turn to give the nice man his change back, I hear that loud and impatient voice one last time.

"Monsieur, vous devez scanner votre billet ici!"

I quickly scan my ticket, becoming a little afraid of this woman, and then I am a bona fide ticket-paying passenger. With a smile, I give the nice man his remaining change and thank him several times for his kindness. He looks at me with nothing but pity; but at this point, I am grateful for both his change and his pity.

I stand holding my large brown suitcase with my right leg supported by the side of the bus. My overstuffed backpack is on the floor and my smaller green backpack is on my shoulder. At times, the large brown bag starts to roll away from me, and I have to drag it back and tighten my hold on it with my leg. Now all those people, who avoided eye contact with me just a few minutes ago, appear to be quite amused watching me struggle to control my luggage. I see stifled giggles and hear outright laughter.

This bus ride takes much longer than I anticipate. I miss the sites of Bordeaux through the window as I focus on trying to quell the disturbance rising in my stomach. The bumps, potholes, quick stops, road construction, and crazy traffic in beautiful downtown Bordeaux do not help my situation. What will I do if I can’t hold it in any longer? I search the side pockets of my luggage for a bag of any kind. No luck! Then a crazy thought enters my head, likely due to my extreme tiredness, dehydration, nausea, and hunger. The large side pocket in my luggage will have to do. There are a few things in there, but I easily move them to a different compartment. The outside zipper is now fully open and ready if needed. If I vomit on the bus, the mean lady bus driver and her crew of riders will throw my Italian Canadian ass off in a New York minute. Is there a New York minute even though I’m in Bordeaux? I ask a young man standing next to me how long it will be before we arrive at the train station. He tells me another 15 minutes or so. Panic sets in. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on! My large brown luggage interrupts my thoughts as it rolls away from me yet again. At least this takes my mind off my stomach.

"Gare! Gare!" Finally, we arrive at the train station! A wave of relief and another wave of nausea washes over me. I quickly grab all my belongings and step off the bus. Sitting down on a nearby wooden bench facing the train station, I quickly survey the area. No one else is in the vicinity, and I discover a sewer behind my bench. Thank goodness for that! I can no longer hold on, and what ensues eventually brings tremendous relief. Talk about being in the right place at the right time!

I think at times God has a really great sense of humour. I’m sure He is sitting on His throne having a good hearty laugh at my many unusual predicaments. Gaining my bearings once more, I walk to the train station, confident that I will be in Saint Jean Pied du Port later that afternoon.

At 1:30 p.m. I am in the station and find the board displaying train numbers and times. Mine is not showing, so I assume since it departs at 2:45 p.m., that it isn’t listed yet. I cannot find an employee, so I ask a few people who are in the station if they can help, but all I get are strange looks. Though used to that by now, I can feel my stress level and anger increasing by the minute. I gulp some water from a bottle given to me on the plane, and finally see a young man who works at the train station; at least that’s what the badge on his chest indicates. Thankfully, his English is good, and we can understand each other. I show him my pre-paid ticket and tell him I need to get to Saint Jean Pied du Port. As he checks my ticket, he explains that I need to take not one, not two, but three trains, then a bus to get to my destination. I stare at him as if he has just told me my best friend has died. I can’t believe this! Three trains, plus a bus ride; a total of about three and a half more hours if I don’t miss any connections. Then he tries to explain to me where I need to go to catch my first train: go here, take a right, then left, then another right. He could have stopped after he told me I needed to take three trains and a bus. My mind is already looking for other options.

At this point, I feel like leaning against the building beside the homeless man I see, curling up in a fetal position, sucking my thumb, and hoping that someone will come along and take me away. As the young man is about to turn and leave, he sees the distraught and confused look on my face.

Monsieur, are you okay? Do you understand where to go?

Oui, oui, merci beaucoup, I lie.

Okay, Lord, I know You are still having a few more laughs at my expense! First, there was the lesson of humility on the bus. Now, what lesson was I to learn? Of course—anger management! You know me too well, Lord!

What to do now? My brain is thinking, racing! I know one thing for sure: I am totally drained mentally, physically, and emotionally. I’ve run half- and full-marathons and felt one thousand percent better than I do at this moment. I want to cry on somebody’s shoulder and the closest person around is the homeless man sitting against the side of the building.

Plan B is to go look for a taxi. As I pass the man who watched me receive directions from the train employee, he extends his hand in search of some change. The forlorn look on his face mirrors my own. I dig deep into my trouser pocket for change, but all I have is the €5.00 bill the bus driver would not accept. I hand it to him and he accepts it with much gratitude.

"Que Dieu te bénisse."

As I continue to walk to the front of the train station, my luggage seems to be getting heavier with every step. I see a taxi not far from where I was sick earlier. I try to hasten my pace but to no avail; I am just too worn down. Soon, I approach the taxi and knock on the rolled-up window.

"Bonjour, monsieur." As the driver rolls down the window, I realize it is not ‘monsieur,’ but ‘madame.’ "Pardonnez-moi, madame. Parlez-vous anglais?"

"Non monsieur, je ne parle pas anglais." I’m sure I hear God laughing so hard his belly must be aching as He watches this whole scenario play out. I struggle to explain to this lady taxi driver where I need to go. "Vous voulez aller où?" she asks.

I repeat my request, thinking she doesn’t understand my French. However, she just can’t believe I want to take a taxi to Saint Jean Pied du Port. Apparently, hardly anyone ever takes a taxi there. "Monsieur, c’est très loin. C’est dans les montagnes."

"Oui madame, je sais. Combien d’argent allez-vous facturer? Combien de temps faudra-t-il pour y arriver?"

"Monsieur, ça va coûter très cher.

"Combien?" I ask once again, with a forced smile on my face, how much will it cost and how long will it take? At that point, I am almost willing to pay any price. She pulls her little calculator out and starts working her numbers. Once she finishes her calculations, she tells me it will take about two-and-a-half hours to reach Saint Jean, and the cost will be €450.00. Yikes! That would be over $600.00 Canadian! I did say that I will pay anything to get there, but I didn’t expect that. I try my negotiation skills with her once more.

Madame, votre prix est trop cher. I tell her in French that she does not look very busy this afternoon, and I don’t think she will earn what I will offer her to take me to Saint Jean, which is €300.00. She goes back to her calculator, then turns to me.

Bien, allons-y. And with that, we shake hands in agreement.

We are finally on the way to Saint Jean but have several more stops along the way. My stomach is still acting up, and thankfully my driver stops and pulls over to the side of the road when I need her to. After about two hours, we are nearing the mountains and she indicates that our destination is close. A short time later, we arrive at the front of my modest-looking hotel. Finally, after all the challenges during that somewhat nightmarish day, I am at my destination! I take my luggage out of the trunk and pay her the agreed upon sum with an additional €20.00 for her kindness, compassion, and understanding. I extend my hand toward her but she wraps her arms around me instead, and with a warm hug she wishes me a buen Camino.

Several hurdles overcome, many lessons learned, and I haven’t even started my walk yet. I can hardly wait to see what unfolds on my Camino de Santiago over the next 35 days!

History of Santiago de Compostela[1]

T

he Camino de Santiago, also known as The Way of St. James, was established in honour of St. James. Saint James the Greater, son of Zebedee, was one of the twelve apostles who followed Jesus Christ in spreading the word of God. It is believed that he was one of only three in Jesus’ inner circle; the others were Simon Peter and James’ brother John.

Following the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, the disciples were ordered to spread the word of God throughout the known world. James made his pilgrimage to the Iberian Coast. After spending some time in Spain evangelizing, he returned to Judaea where he was beheaded by King Herod Agrippa I, in 44 AD, becoming the first apostle to be martyred in the name of Jesus. The remains of St. James were then put on a ship by his followers, with the intention of bringing them back to the Iberian coast, known today as Galicia. Before arriving on land, a storm at sea destroyed the ship, and his remains washed ashore covered in scallops; thus the scallop shells’ connection to the Camino. From the coast, it is said that St. James’ followers transported his body by ox and cart. Not knowing where to bury his sacred remains, they prayed on this and decided to allow the ox to continue until it chose a place to rest. After stopping at an oak tree on a hillside, his followers decided that this would be the place where he would be buried.

It would be 750 years before his tomb would be discovered. A hermit by the name of Pelagius who lived in that part of Galicia, had a vision which he reported to the bishop of Ira Flavia, named Theodomiro. In his vison Pelagius saw a bright, large star that was surrounded by a ring of smaller stars, shining over a deserted spot in the hills. The tomb was dug up and the remains of St. James were identified. When King Alfonso II visited the site, he declared St. James the patron saint of Spain and built a church as well as a small monastery over the tomb in the saint’s honour, around which a town grew. It was then known as campus de la stella or campus stellae, (field of stars), then later known as Compostela. The remains of St. James are believed to still be in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela today.

The journey of the hero is about the courage to seek the depths; the image of creative rebirth; the eternal cycle of change within us; the uncanny discovery that the seeker is the mystery which the seeker seeks to know.

Joseph Campbell; The Hero’s Journey:

Joseph Campbell on His Life and works

Friday, May 6, 2022

ST. JEAN PIED DE PORT, FRANCE

A

t 4:30 a.m. I am awake after a restful, but short sleep at the Hotel des Remparts, in St. Jean Pied de Port. It’s still dark outside and although I want more sleep, I am unable to; even sleeping pills have not helped. I toss and turn for a while, then finally get up at around 6 a.m. Yesterday was a frustrating and tiring travel day physically, mentally, and emotionally. I had hoped to get at least eight hours of sleep, but it was not to be. Perhaps the time difference between France and Canada, or maybe the excitement of being at the starting point of my Camino Frances prevented the relaxation needed. From the moment I wake up, all I can think about is walking through this beautiful little town at the foot of the Pyrenees Mountains.

It’s still too early to leave the hotel and walk around town, so I begin my day with prayers. In my prayers, I thank God for always being there, for me and my family. I truly feel that I am blessed by Him, even during times when I didn’t realize He was there with me. Therefore, this is not just about a very long walk in France and Spain; it’s a Pilgrimage to show my gratitude to God for all of His gifts, all of His blessings, and all of His mercies. And what better place to give Him thanks, than on the Way of Saint James? I am here to leave a heavy burden behind at the Cruz de Ferro—a burden that I carried with me for many years. I am also here to honour my deceased parents who left Italy so many years ago without much, to give their children a chance at a better life in Canada. I will also film a documentary, interviewing people from all over the world and asking them why they are here walking the Camino de Santiago.

At 7 a.m. I hear church bells tolling, the Angelus, a calling for Catholics to come to Mass. I listen to birds singing and roosters crowing. I smile as I look out the window at the clear blue morning sky, the nearby Pyrenees Mountains, and the adventure that awaits me. I hear movement on the lower floor where the restaurant is located and remember that breakfast will be served soon. I dress myself, and shortly after as I sit down at my table to receive breakfast, I notice that I am the only one in the restaurant. Breakfast is a simple one, consisting of bread, cold cuts, cheese, coffee and orange juice. It satisfies me as I am not a big breakfast person, especially early in the morning. When I step outside, I feel a definite freshness in the air and decide that it’s too cool to walk around in my short sleeve shirt. I return to my room and put on my red Canada fleece hoodie which will keep me warm as I walk around this little gem of a place. The air is crisp, the sky is clear and it’s the beginning of a beautiful day—perfect for my first full day in St. Jean Pied de Port. Leaving the hotel, I turn left to walk toward the center of town, then another left to make my way to the furthest point of the town limits. I look northwest of where I stand and I see the majestic Pyrenees Mountains; the same mountains that I will be ascending tomorrow to start my Camino.

Walking back toward town, I traverse the very picturesque Vieux Pont de Pelerins, (Old Pilgrims Bridge), and take several pictures of this famous bridge. I continue on the cobblestone street of Rue de la Citadelle towards the Pilgrim’s Office where I will register to walk the Camino de Santiago. As I approach the office, I notice there are already a few people ahead of me waiting to be registered and receive their Credencial del Peregrino or Pilgrims Credential. The Pilgrims Credential is like a passport that is required to be stamped at least once in each town that you visit; at a church, albergue, hotel, bar, or other establishment along the way. This is to certify that you have walked at least 100 kilometres or cycled at least 200 kilometres before receiving your Compostela Certificate. For the last 100 kilometres, the minimum requirement is two stamps per town or city. I won’t have any problems meeting these requirements as I will be walking 800 kilometres to finish my journey in Santiago de Compostela.

As I wait to fill out the necessary information with one of several volunteers able to speak multiple languages, I notice an obvious buzz of excitement in this small, but crowded office. I sense that I am part of something very special. Once the paperwork is complete, I purchase one of the many clam shells on display for a modest €2.00 before leaving the Pilgrims Office. The clam shell is a symbol that I will carry on my backpack, indicating to all that I am a Pilgrim walking on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela. I continue to explore the town, following the Rue de la Citadelle, visiting a few shops that are now open, taking more pictures and videos, and continuing towards the Porte d’Espagne, the unofficial starting point of the Camino in Saint Jean. After passing the gate, I follow the signs to the Route Napoleon towards the Pyrenees Mountains and my destination for tomorrow, the town of Roncesvalles. Once I am satisfied that I won’t have any problems getting on the right path in the morning, I make my way back to my hotel to rest.

As I lay down on the bed, I am thinking of the amazing journey ahead of me. Though I do not normally nap during the day, I gratefully fall into a deep sleep. In the early afternoon, I wake up feeling much better and having a good appetite. I get dressed and set out to discover more of this beautiful little town, starting with a place where I can eat a simple French baguette drizzled with good olive oil, jambon de bayonne ham, and good sheep milk cheese called Nassau-Iraty, from this region.

I’m happy to see the owner behind the counter pile mounds of thinly-shaved slices of ham on my crusty bread, which I thoroughly enjoy along with a wonderful glass of French red wine. I’m still hungry after finishing my baguette but decide to save my appetite for supper. I spend the rest of this relaxing afternoon simply walking the narrow cobblestone streets, and taking photos and videos of the many interesting places, including the Porte de France, Porte de Saint Jacques, and the beautiful ancient church, Eglise de Notre Dame du Bout du Pont. Continuing on, I pass by an Italian restaurant that is closed and I am greeted by an attractive, middle-aged woman standing in front of the building.

"Bonne apres-midi, monsieur."

"Bon apres-midi madame," I reply.

Focusing on my red Canada fleece hoodie she asks, "Tu viens du Canada?" (You are from Canada)?

"Oui madame, mais je suis ne’ en Italie." (Yes madam, but I was born in Italy)

"Quindi, parli Italiano?" (So, you speak Italian?) she asks. I always love speaking my mother tongue whenever I can, even though my pronunciations aren’t always the best.

"Si, ma il mio Italiano non e’ perfetto." (Yes, but my Italian is not perfect)

"Come ti chiami?" (What is your name?)

"Il mio nome e’ Angelo."

"Piacere Angelo, io sono Anna."

I explained to this very nice woman that I have lived in Canada since I was seven years old. She tells me that she and her husband are both Italians from northern Italy, close to the French border. They moved here 15 years ago and opened the restaurant behind where she stands.They both spoke French very well before moving here, so language was not a barrier, and they both walked the Camino Frances from St. Jean Pied de Port to Santiago de Compostela 17 years ago. They were infatuated with this beautiful area and loved meeting the Pilgrims undertaking this amazing journey.

She invites me to come back and have dinner at her restaurant later that evening. I accept and promise to return at 6:30. "Ciao, Ciao, a presto!" (Ciao, Ciao, see you soon).

Ten minutes later, I am back at my hotel. I rest for a while, then refresh myself and head back to the restaurant. A gentleman that I assume is Anna’s husband greets me with a warm smile.

"Bonsoir Monsieur.

I reply in French that my name is Angelo, and I made a reservation earlier with Anna.

Now shaking my hand he says, "Benvenuto, welcome! Io sono Giovanni, Anna’s husband.

After choosing a table, Giovanni tells Anna that I have arrived. Shortly after, she comes to show me the menu and makes a couple of recommendations, after which I choose the fettuccine in Bolognese sauce.

I finish my delicious and authentic Italian pasta, and after dessert and coffee, I say my good byes to Anna and Giovanni, thanking them for a wonderful meal.

I return to my hotel room, reflecting on tomorrow’s journey and its challenges. I welcome challenges! I ran my first full marathon at age 66! I am not afraid of failure or success but with great success, one must make great sacrifices through hard work! I feel that my desire to succeed is always greater than my fear of disappointment and defeat.

I can hardly wait for dawn to break!

Saturday, May 7, 2022: Day 1 on the Camino

FROM SAINT JEAN PIED DE PORT, FRANCE TO RONCESVALLES, SPAIN - 24.2 KILOMETRES

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not on thine own understanding.

In all thy ways, acknowledge Him. And He shall direct thy paths."

(RSV, Catholic Edition, 1965, 1966, Proverbs 3: 5-6)

O

nce again, this morning, I wake up to the beautiful sounds of church-bells ringing, birds singing and roosters crowing.  How wonderful this is! I gaze out my window towards the majestic Pyrenees Mountains, see the blue skies, and feel my heart racing just a little bit faster with anticipation and excitement. My long-awaited dream is finally about to become a reality.

I had a tremendously enjoyable time yesterday walking around Saint Jean, feeling relaxed and regaining my strength. I begin my morning prayers asking that God will watch over me and keep me safe from any harm or evil that may come my way. I pray the rosary and once finished I get myself ready. I pack all my things in the large brown luggage and only the essentials that I might need for the day in my black backpack, including water, meds, and snacks. I will be walking up high on the mountains this day, so I choose to wear a long-sleeved sports shirt as well as a short-sleeved sport shirt over it. I’ve learned from my long-distance running training that it’s best to wear lighter layers of clothing rather than one heavy shirt which would retain perspiration. For my footwear, I choose a pair of merino-wool socks, and water-proof hiking boots over the trail runners for today’s crossing of the mountains. The boots will provide better ankle support. I put on my red fleece Canada hoodie, secure my backpack over my shoulders, take one last look around the room, and drag my heavy brown luggage down the many steps.

The hotel owner is already up and greets me with bonjour. In a conversation before breakfast, he shares with me that he was originally from Spain and moved to Saint Jean upon buying this hotel five years ago. He asks me to leave the luggage in a small room by the stairs, where it will be picked up and delivered by a van to my next hotel later this morning. I had arranged through my travel agent and her representatives here in France and Spain to have my luggage forwarded to the various lodgings I will be staying in daily. This is of great value to me, as I only have to carry what I need for my daily trek in my backpack.

Breakfast is ready and although I initially thought of skipping it, I reconsider thinking of the long and difficult day that is ahead of me. It was a simple but thoroughly enjoyable breakfast of fruit, one-third of a French baguette, cold cuts, delicious local cheeses, coffee, and orange juice. I could go for this every day! I finish eating and make my way to the front door. Before leaving I thank the owner for his hospitality and breakfast as he wishes me a buen Camino before closing the door behind me. Stepping outside, I inhaled several deep breaths, filling my lungs with the cool mountain air. I double-check my pockets for my Canadian Passport, my Camino Passport, and my cell phone; a ritual I will duplicate each morning for the rest of my walk to Santiago de Compostela. With my hiking poles in hand, clear skies above me, and my heart racing, I begin.

One of my goals while walking the Camino is to film a documentary. I thought about it for quite some time when planning this trip, and I bought a brand-new iPhone just before leaving home, to capture both pictures and videos. My intention is to interview some pilgrims walking the Camino to understand their personal goals in taking on this amazing and difficult journey.

I retrace the steps from yesterday morning, leading me out of town towards the route to the Pyrenees Mountains. As I approach the base of the hill the signs are very clear and prominent: Chemin de St. Jacques, The Way of St. James, Camino de Santiago. Another reads, Refuge Auberge Orisson. For pilgrims that choose not to walk the complete 24-plus kilometres on the first day to Roncesvalles, they may stay at the albergue in Orisson, only 7 kilometres from here. I check my sports watch and it’s exactly 6:45 a.m..

At this point, pilgrims have a choice to make on the two different paths to pursue. One is the Napoleon route, which takes you directly over the Pyrenees Mountains, crossing the border between France and Spain, and is the more challenging of the two. It stretches 24.2 kilometres from St. Jean Pied de Port to Roncesvalles. This route, is normally not recommended in the wintertime or during bad weather. The second option, is called the Valcarlos Route, and its distance is slightly less at 23.4 kilometres to Roncesvalles. Although the distance is relatively the same, the biggest difference between the two routes is the height and the steepness. The Valcarlos Route peaks at just under 1000 meters while the Napoleon Route peaks at 1450 meters to the Col de Lepoeder. I consider both and feel that I can take on the challenge of the more difficult Napoleon Route.

After ascending 100 metres, I look back toward the town I just left, and what a beautiful sight it is! I take several postcard-worthy pictures with my brand-new iPhone and continue my walk. The climb is getting steeper with each step, and I think about how difficult it will become by the time I reach the upper parts of the mountain. As my heart rate increases, I begin to perspire and decide to remove my fleece-lined hoodie. As I do so, I notice a pretty young woman on the opposite side of the path who stops to rearrange her backpack. She is small-framed and yet she’s carrying a very large backpack that seems to be too heavy for her. I wait for her to settle her backpack and I approach her with a buenos dias. She turns toward me with a smile and returns the good morning greeting. I chat with her about how heavy her backpack looks and she readily agrees, saying that she packed way too much. I introduced myself to her and tell her I’m from Canada but was born in Italy. She introduces herself to me as Alessandra from Sardegna, Italy. Even though her English is good, she realizes I speak Italian and chooses to speak her native language as she’s more comfortable with it. This is fine with me of course, as I always enjoy speaking my own mother tongue.

We walk together and Alessandra tells me a little about herself, her job, and her family. She is a pastry chef and she took a leave of absence to come and walk the Way of Saint James. This is something she planned for some time, and like so many people, she had to wait because of the COVID-19 pandemic. As we walk together, I sense sadness inside this young woman, but I do not infringe on her private thoughts.

Continuing to ascend the increasingly steep hill together, we are joined by a fellow that Alessandra met at the albergue where they both stayed in St. Jean. They chat for a few minutes, then she introduces me to this young man named Leon. Leon is from The Netherlands and quit his job as a head chef to come here and walk the Camino all the way to Santiago de Compostela. I chat a little bit with Leon about being a chef. He tells me he loves to cook, but the hours and the lifestyle of a chef are not enjoyable; too many hours of work and not enough time to enjoy life. I ask his age and he tells me he is thirty. He asks about me about myself and I tell him that I’m retired, have been for some time, and I planned on coming here to walk the Camino for several years. I sense that Leon is a private or even a shy person, but I really like this fellow. He has a kind aura about him. He turns to Alessandra to chat more and I choose to step back behind them to allow them their own time.

The hill continues to get much steeper. I slow down to take a breath and to take a few pictures and a video of the beautiful scenery surrounding us; the thickly treed mountains in the distance, the sprawling valleys below, the farms, and the animals feeding from the rich springtime grasses. As I turn to continue my walk, I notice a heavy-set man with a full-grown red beard who is bent over trying to catch his breath. I give him credit for being here and admire his determination. As a runner, I have trained for and been in various races, from a 5-kilometre distance right up to a full 42.2-kilometre marathon. The runners